


perks from bottles

by billspilledquill



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, dont read this, is this my legacy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 18:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Maximilien is found staring at Antoine’s bottle. The one he touched with his lips, or you know, used.





	perks from bottles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AStupidUserName420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStupidUserName420/gifts).



> This is all your fault, my friend. Seriously, the blame is all on you. I guess we are all going to hell one day or another, oh well.

 

Parties aren’t supposed to be fun. In fact, they are quite bothersome at times. Too many faces, too many smiles to indulge, some big bastard who come in to ruin the show, Maximilien thinks bitterly, looking at Danton. Yes, things like _that_.

Not that it can’t turn out great, sometimes. See: Camille being drunk and be able to recite the Declaration of Independence mixed with slurs and excerpts from the communist manifesto. Lucile is laughing, kissing him fervently, equally drunk.

“Max _iiiii_ me,” Camille says, “what do you think the plural of Maximilien is?” He tilts his head on one side, then on the other, looking very much like a doll, “Maxs? Maxis? Maxiiias—“

And then he stops abruptly, making a noise as if Maximilien suddenly got two heads, “Lucile! Lucile is plural, you know,” he gestures something in the air, “you know! Just, I love her, very, so much, Maxime...” he blinks, blinks again and puts both hands on his shoulder, as if he wants to steady himself, “you are Maxis again! Four green eyed...”

“Calm down, my young Werther,” he says quickly, before it escalates into a three pages monologue. He leads him upstairs and glances at Lucile, who nods, “go to sleep and I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“A child,” Antoine growls quietly at his corner, and Maximilien tries not to smile at the childishness of the comment itself.

The night falls fast, and as soon as it fell and most of the guests have left, Maximilien starts regretting his life decisions. He looks at the mess, sighs. Who would have thought hosting a night would be this tiresome? He picks out a bottle, looks at it. Looks away. Memory flashes.

See: Antoine drinking from the bottle since he can’t find his cup anymore and is not in the condition to even notice it.

He grabs the bottle and rushes up to his room, closes the door. His heart hammering.

Maximilien walks to the bed, doesn’t even dare to look at the bottle in his hand. The feeling that someone may see him, that Antoine would see him if he even just dare to glance at it, is very unsettling.

He lays down, looking at the ceiling, and Antoine’s picture steps flashes in his mind, lips touching the bottle, closing around them and looking at him in that subjective method of his, as if he was trying to make something happen.

He gasps a little, opening his eyes, and hides himself further in the bed sheets. He takes himself in his hand, softly, and is lost a little in the fantasy of imagining this being someone else’s hand. A pale and elegant hand, a ring on it.

The boy would have laughed then, how ridiculous this is. _You have grown so desperate, Maxime. Let me lend a hand?_

He slowly takes his clothes off, feeling the coldness of the night air. He inhales, and works himself open with one finger. Another, and two, just because. He moans, muffled by the sheets. He thinks how would Antoine reacts to all this if he ever sees him like this, spread and opened up, how he would have sit there and watched, enjoying the show, or walked away in disgust, just like he himself would do.

Or better, his head supplies, he would have kissed him, and let Maximilien take him in his mouth, and stretch him open with something way better than his fingers.

But now, he looks at the bottle, a green little thing. It reflects his contorted image, and he looks, he looks,. Something could be made out of this.

He hesitatingly positioned the bottle to his entrance, and inhaling through his nose, entered the tip of the bottle in him. He cries out a little, the opening of bottles usually not suitable for such activities. He enters it in him deeper, feeling the cold and hard edges of the glass filling him in a strangely pleasant way. He was about to pull it out until he moves it a little bit, just a little. In and out, sparks of pleasure making him moan out loud, and he begins to move it quicker and deeper into himself.

“Antoine,” he says without thinking, breathlessly, “Antoine...” he makes a sound that is suspiciously high pitched, “Antoine, please...”

 _Maximilien?_ He can heard him say, flushed red with dilated pupils. He would see how it stretches him, _Maxime_.

“Maximilien?”

“Please,” he says, then froze. He pulls the bottle out, opens his eyes through the tears, and sees a very red Antoine standing at the door, his hands fumbling with each other.

 _Oh_. Realization hits him like a wave. The door lock.

“I,” Antoine begins, “I, um, I forgot something, sorry to, um, interrupt.” And Maximilien can almost laugh at the deep pink that is spread on Antoine’s cheeks to neck, but laughing seems like condemning himself to death right now. Antoine perceives his glance and starts, still looking at the floor, “I’m sorry, I, um, it doesn’t matter, I will pick up my things tomorrow.”

Maximilien nods, and just as he is about to go, he whispers just enough for him to hear. He sounds almost afraid, “Did, ah, did you say my name, Maxime?”

Antoine just lifts his head enough to see him, but can’t seem strong enough to look at him in the eye. His glance falls on the bottle. He blushes again, and definitely returns his eyes to the absolutely interesting wooden floor of his room. “Is that mine?”

After a long suffocating silence, and after assuming that Antoine would not go until he has an answer to his questions, Maximilien speaks softly to the night, pulling at the bed sheets.

“I’m the host of the night. So technically, it is mine.”

Antoine finally leaves a small, nervous laugh, “Never knew you were as firm on these kind of things as you are with intellectual property, Maxime.”

The tension dissipates, just a little. Maximilien says, “I hope you are not too disgusted with me. Forget about this, okay? Nothing happened.”

Antoine hesitantly meets his, and as if taken by some kind of godless conviction, he steps in the room with small and tentative steps. His cheeks are still pink. He takes his hand, tentatively, and he says, a little bit too quiet to be considered normal, “Okay,” he says, “nothing happened.”

And through the nervousness of his features, Maximilien could see his eyes sparkling with mischief. Antoine says, in that same tone, “Then are you free for some night or another? I know a restaurant near your street that is excellent, Maxime.”

“I like greek,” he says, and Antoine smiles like he has never smiled before. It is impossible not to return it, really, so it is not totally his fault. 

 

 


End file.
